Well, OK, maybe not the official Peace Dove with the olive branch. Of
course not. And not Dove soap, ha ha. But none of this pigeons in the
grass, alas, guano. Huh-uh. Pigeons in the grass can bite Rudy’s
okole.

So he’s standing there like Mr. Clean, arms crossed, proprietarily
admiring his ironwood tree, when he thinks he detects movement at the
bottom of his stairway.

Coo-coo kachoo, there IS movement: fucking doves. Two fucking doves.
Two doves fucking in that awkward, jerky, grabass way doves fuck,
right in his own front yard.

And now he really hates doves. He’s furious. Fucking doves. He’d like
to wring their twisty little necks. Sucking doves!

Rudy catches his breath. “Olive branch,” he thinks. “Peace out, bra.”
He grins, claps his hands hard, makes them sting like rifle shots,
like shotgun blasts. Feathers fluster, flutter, and fly. But not far.
Definitely not away. Like recalcitrants, like people. Like doves.